In the bookshop


When I was a teen girl I couldn’t imagine it was possible to exist such a bookstore – a part of the premises was a café where the visitors din’t read books but did other kinds of activities, maybe more interesting than browsing among pages. A man in a violet pullover was trying to explain to a woman in a pink cardigan that contemporary life was unthinkable without PC. She didn’t believe him. Besides, she knew that his mother had chosen that pullover. If he wasn’t able to buy clothes by himself, it wasn’t strange he couldn’t live without the network.
On the next table a mother with a gorgeous body in a tight dress was rewriting secretly a recipe from a cookbook when her toddler screamed fell unexpectedly in the legs of the woman with the pink cardigan who in a moment saw the opportunity it could be her child and his father wore stupid clothes, etc., so made the unconditional decision she would never go out with him again. Her eyes emanated a picture, painted with a blaze never used by a man for shaving.
The third table was occupied by two of the saleswomen dressed in red t-shirts with the logo of the bookshop. They didn’t drink milk and cocoa because the one of them was a hipster and hated the artificial milk, and the other was very upset. She wasn’t able to take second shifts since her parents run business with pears and cherries. And some other fruit. She had to work in the forenoons only - her mother didn’t agree not to help on the market. The young woman was single and there wasn’t chance for a boyfriend not because she was clumsy, spoke too slow and suffered from an inferiority complex.
I felt like reading a short-story which makes me watching words instead peeping out the covers of the book. I didn’t remember any of them. Even dough short they had left the sense of boredom with their frank meaningless. By the way, the jacket of the book was just a bad combination of colours. While thinking about it I heard a boylike voice. Obviously, it was about me, ‘Madam, do you know how someone can be a super boy? They say it in this book.’ 15-years-old gave me a foolish smile. My husband was looking through a photography album in the art section. I told him. About the adolescent for the time being. He found him and asked, ‘ Are you aware of what do you do?’


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